She stood, dragged her feet towards his voice, and found him in the hall.
The remaining ropes around her waist and thighs wilted to the floor. She was naked save for stockings, boots, and a red dress of rope burns, bruises, and blood, only some of it hers.
Andreas didn’t seem to care.
He ran to her, and pulled her into his arms. He looked like he’d crawled through mud to get here. Distant sirens wailed behind his deep voice in her ear, whispering, “I’m sorry. You were right about Madame. I’m sorry.”
Sterling’s knees buckled with the force of her sobs. He lifted her and carried her to the stairs, where he sat with her curled on his lap, clutched to his chest. He let go only once, to remove his jacket and wrap it around her.
Her voice was gone, but she managed to mouth the word that mattered most. “Fernando?”
“He’s okay, though he has a concussion. Medics are checking him downstairs. He sent us up to find the attacker, and Harry. We’ve arrested the assailant. He’ll have his wounds treated, then be off to lockup.”
She tried to speak, and failed. But Andreas understood.
“Harry’s stable and in an ambulance to the hospital. Beate’s with her.”
The lights blinked on. In the lobby, the radio fizzled back to life. Gentle harmonies of the Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You” floated upstairs.
Andreas caressed her cheek, wiping her tears. His brown eyes shone amber under the chandelier. She noticed, for the first time, how his left iris had two black specks shaped like a quotation mark, like the start of an unfinished sentence. Perhaps, something he’d yet to tell himself. Whatever it was, he didn’t say it. At least, not then. Instead, he told her what she needed most in that moment. And she believed him.
“It’s over. You’re safe.”
— 52 —Zweiundfünfzig
The murder trial of Gertrude Goldfinch, aka Madame Weiss, was a public sensation. Thankfully, cameras were banned from the courthouse, but gossip ran rampant. Madame’s rumored titles were numerous, including the head of Nightingale. The prosecutor’s office hadn’t charged her with blackmail or racketeering, but it seemed beyond coincidence that after Madame traded in her gold bracelets for cuffs, the group fell silent. Vienna slept easier with her locked away.
For weeks, the guests and staff of the Hotel Orient had heard and given testimony. A curtain shielded the stand, hiding witnesses from view. A microphone altered their voices. And court records redacted their names. Somewhere in lower Austria was a government warehouse filled floor to ceiling with the paperwork required to make that happen. Andreas had completed most of it. Sterling suspected he’d liked it. Perverse, truly.
But it was worth it in the end. The panel of judges issued a guilty verdict. Then, for the contracted killings of Hedy Delacroix, DavidGoldfinch, and an unidentified John Doe, Gertrude Goldfinch was sentenced to three life terms.
Sterling had been in the courthouse watching as Madame was escorted away. Weiss shot Sterling a sullen glower as she readjusted her lilac neck scarf, hand-dyed with purple flowers in Hedy’s favorite shade.
The scarf was a message. It was also the garment Weiss hanged herself with three hours later. Or so the police and the next day’s papers claimed.
Maybe her guilt over David was too much. Then again, she’d protected and betrayed enough powerful people. Maybe she’d feared retribution. Or someone got it.
Many people, Fernando included, could have pointed out that the cheap scarf in the crime scene photos was a knockoff, unlike the designer piece she’d worn to court. But anyone who knew Madame’s history bit their tongue.
Weiss’s death, her supposed suicide, was a bitter victory. News of the hanging sent a shiver down the city’s spine. If the people in power could silence Weiss, then couldn’t they do the same to her former employees? It seemed the hive mind of local honeypots all arrived at the same idea, because as the sun set, the women gathered at the Orient without need for invitation.
Sterling greeted them, laced into her uniform, whiskey ready to pour. “Come inside, darlings. Let me take care of you.”
An anxious aura hung over the gathering. The throng of harlots spilled from the tiny champagne bar into the lobby. A cacophony of lipsticked whispers filled the air. Rita paced back and forth, the train of her peach-colored dress sprinkling glitter in her wake as she kissed cheeks and poured drinks.
Mr. K cleared his throat. Sterling lowered the radio, ignoringMaximilian’s protests. The room went silent save for the crackling fireplace, which roared despite the late-March warmth, glowing with ominous purpose.
“I understand you’re scared,” said Mr. K, “but you have a few things on your side. The first is the Orient. You’ll always be safe here. The second is strength in numbers. The third is Sterling.” He shot her a near imperceptible wink. “Take it away, Spoon.”
“I have a plan,” said Sterling, brandishing a manila folder over her head. Gasps of recognition sounded. “These are the last of Weiss’s files. Your work filled them, and the information inside can protect you for life, but only if you follow my instructions.”
She eyed the crowd. They nodded.
“You’ll each be provided two files: your own and a report about one of Madame’s clients. You must never reveal the contents to anyone else, especially each other. That way, the people listed in these files won’t know who among you knows what. They can’t kill us all. If you can’t handle that pressure, then go.” She paused, her expression severe. “But you may never return here.”
No one flinched. No one left.
Sterling, Fernando, and Rita circled the room, handing folders to each woman. The sex workers read and sipped, with barely a raised eyebrow among them. Nothing more shocking than they were accustomed to. They’d seen everything.
